Tim kicks and it's his heel against Jason's ribs. It doesn't take a genius to know how ineffective the squirming will be: there's no room to swing his leg and no strength behind it. So Tim has the thought to pull a fistful of Jason's hair. That stays only a thought.

People do that when agitated. Some holdover from their time as chimpanzees. Flail arms, kick up dirt, hoot and holler and then make a dash into the brush to hide.

Tim wants to think he's only letting Jason know: he's going to hurl.

(Of course there's no booby traps- none left by him because that would be irresponsible. And none by the brat because, if he camped here for the blizzard, then there was no way of knowing if some other person would be scrambling inside for safety at the last minute.)

"Robin!"

It's not even Tim's bark. Or Red Robin's. Or Robin's, when he entered his brownstone home and knew he would find himself turned into this monster like... no, it's a Bat's voice. That snarl that demands answers even from the dark itself.

The type of shout all of them are conditioned to respond to.

There's silence.

Tim kicks, voice thick when he seethes to Red Hood, "Put me down."

Damn it man, he's going to hurl.